“I think something stabbed me in there.”
She looked at him, worried, and he felt another sort of stab, one of pure desire, at bringing such a look of concern to her eyes. Still, she continued to prove her profession by grabbing his arms, tearing off his coat, and turning his back slightly toward her. Then, even more disturbingly, she yanked up the back of his shirt.
At this point, he had to object, not wanting her to think him a possible customer, however beautiful she might be. “Madame, I'll have you know . . .”
She snorted—actually snorted. He hadn’t heard that even in the brothels before.
“I'm hardly that.”
As much as he could, he looked back at where she was examining, surprised to see that there was no blood. It felt like there should be. Her gaze was serious, though.
A female voice nearby moved closer. “What is it, Em?”
He turned to see another woman, her hair more properly up, although her proximity to him was anything but formal.
He was distracted from her—and the fact that he hadn’t even noticed her before, his concentration entirely on her much-too-forward friend—by the fact that the incredible woman actually put her palm on the naked skin of his back.
Dear God! Despite the fact that it was agony, his mind moved to very different places. Much more of that treatment, and she was going to wake up another part of his anatomy entirely.
Part of him almost wanted to pursue this thought—or, he might have, in a more proper, formal, extended way which didn’t involve business transactions—but the woman’s look was grim.
Raising her hand from what appeared to be unbroken skin, her palm was covered in a sort of dripping, black goo. His eyes widened. It wasn’t blood but . . .
Knowing something was terribly wrong, and not only because the two women exchanged a glower over the substance, he watched. The beautiful one’s companion, who was certainly handsome enough as well, with glossy brown hair and a kind face, handed her friend a handkerchief. The first one wrapped it around the hand and the goo before using the other to tuck his shirt back into his pants.
God help him, but he let out a bleat. Even in the bawdiest of bawdy houses, he hadn’t been manhandled like this—although, admittedly, he had never been a customer.
Taking him by the arm, she led him, helped by the utter shock which had struck him thoroughly dumb. Her tone brooked no argument, not that he had the composure left to give any.
“Come along, Nat. It appears we’ve found our guest.”
Clearly, he was their prisoner.
For what seemed like at least half an hour, Frederick was, however politely, dragged along country roads he did not recognize by the two disreputable women. He wasn’t certain why he went, his fascination with the fallen woman not really enough to explain it. Perhaps it was just the now-rather-diminished pain in his back, the one which she seemed to understand. Perhaps it was simply a need for explanations he knew they could give.
Granted, he had always been a sucker for knowledge. Those odd lights might be made comprehensible at last.
Allowing himself to be led, then, neither of his companions speaking, although each had a firm grasp on one of his arms, he was a little embarrassed. It might have seemed formal and correct, had they not been what they were. He was just glad that he hadn’t known anyone on the train who might spread tales about him.
They were far beyond the wreck now, were approaching a country estate. It was monumental, its gardens manicured and perfectly tended—was a strange place for a bawdy house to hide.
Odder still, though, were the large topiaries in the yard, looking strangely lifelike. His uncle had created some like them before. If he looked away for a second, they seemed to shift position, and he thought he even heard one of the yew panthers growl.
When he turned his head to stare, he was dragged more fully along. A moment later, he was tugged through the front door—and then he was truly inside their lair.
Instantly, he was trotted over to a table, leaned forward against it. He saw the lovely woman draw some sort of symbol in the air. When she flicked her index finger at it, the pattern caught, dashing around every surface he could see—almost painfully bright.
She looked back to him, as well, crooked a finger at him—and suddenly he began to fully breathe again.
The change came as a gasp, a sort of bluish-green light floating out of his mouth. He had had no idea it was even there.
Coughing, he stared at the woman, who seemed apologetic.
“I'm sorry about that. It may have been dangerous to talk there, given . . .”
She waved her fingers vaguely at his back, but no color came out of her hand this time. Her face was grim.
“We had to get you out of there, before any more damage was done.”
He wanted to protest, did, when he realized that he was bent over a table and seemed unable to move. “Madame, I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but I insist . . .”
Except for the sheer indignity of his current situation, it wasn’t really a tone he wished to take with her, but she seemed unlikely to listen to quieter persuasions.
Still, her hand—the one which hadn’t previously touched his back and wasn’t still wrapped in a handkerchief—stopped him, pausing gently on his shoulder, her gaze sympathetic. “You don’t seem to understand most of this, so I apologize for treating you this way.” Her fingers caressed, the touch moving him, making him wish for more. “We need to remove the lume-noir . . .”
She paused at his, no doubt, quizzical look, sighing.
“. . . the infection, before it goes any deeper.”
He couldn’t really argue—something terrible clearly having happened to him—but was still unhappy at the position she had him in. “Madame, if you please . . .”
This time, she laughed. “I'm not anything of the sort, however you choose to interpret the word.”
He wanted to protest again, the situation far too embarrassing, but they were interrupted by a deep, male voice. “What happened, Maitre?”
Frederick tried to turn enough to see but couldn’t. Eventually, he found a mirror on the other side of the room to watch through.
The man looked like a servant, although a highly-ranked one. Tall and rather wide with gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, he seemed both formidable and polite, as the best servants usually were.
Frederick’s confusion deepened. Whoever heard of a bawdy house with a butler?
“Do you need . . .?”
The man stopped talking, as he looked at Frederick, his surprise evident. He supposed, then, that these ladies of the night didn’t usually capture their prey as brazenly as they had him.
Her hand still on Frederick’s shoulder, the beautiful woman spoke. “We need a containment, please, Benjamin. And perhaps . . .” She turned to her unwilling guest. “We need to remove the infection. Would you like something to drink after it?”
Frederick wasn’t sure what to answer, but he knew—no matter how painful this might be—that he didn’t want his senses clouded any further. “Some coffee.”
She gave a tremulous smile, and he wasn’t certain whether it were approval of his stoic nature or amusement at his sheer bullheadedness. Still, she turned to her servant. “And coffee.”
The man didn’t react to the order, still staring at the woman’s hand. “But Maitre . . .”
“Now, please, Benjamin.” He saw her wince slightly and suddenly wondered whether the pain were as bad for her as it had been for him. “The containment first, I think.”
The man did leave this time, looking a little pale, and the beautiful woman’s companion spoke, instead. He had nearly forgotten she was there.
“Are you all right, Em?”
Em—short for Emily, maybe?—nodded, but he saw the strain.
“We just need to get the containment as quickly as possible.”
Turning back to him, her hand never left his shoulder. “I need to remove your shirt.”
&n
bsp; He opened his mouth to protest, but she stared at him warningly.
“And don’t call me ‘Madame’ again. I am neither a prostitute nor partnered, especially not in your mundane sense.”
He stopped, but only because he was too confused to contradict her. She had pulled away but stroked his shoulder lightly once more, after the burst of anger left her.
“My name is Emma.” She reached for the buttons on his shirt and then stopped, gazing deeply into him. “And we need to remove this . . . poison, before it damages us both.”
Strangely, although he did not fully understand, he trusted her.
Holding his gaze until he nodded, she made some sort of move in the air again. Once she did, he found that he was no longer forced to stay in one position and started to follow her orders but paused, his fingers on the buttons of his shirt.
It just wasn’t right, even if it were necessary—especially if, as unlikely as it seemed, she wasn’t a prostitute.
The pain wasn’t as bad as it had been, had ebbed to a low, dull throb of misery, but he could live with that. “Mada . . .” he started, before letting out a sigh. “Emma,” he amended, blushing slightly.
If she weren’t a prostitute or a servant, why was he calling her by her first name so quickly?
“I can’t . . .”
The beautiful woman closed her eyes for a second, and he realized suddenly that she was holding onto the table tightly, her nails digging into it, nearly scratching the parquet. When she looked at him again, he gasped.
There was a sort of black oil which seemed to be infiltrating the brilliant green, and her gaze was one of pure misery with just a touch of anger. For a second, it glowed terrifyingly.
“You must,” she ordered. The words echoed with an unholy power off every wall.
Then, she seemed to calm, although she still looked shaky.
“Please. This is not the same place you came from.” Her gaze bore in. “You are in another time and place and must abide by its rules.”
He was certain his confusion was obvious, but she just nodded.
“Consider me a doctor—and this is an emergency.”
He didn’t want to give in, but she seemed to be in pain, and he somehow felt that this was the only way out for either of them.
Against his better judgement, he removed his shirt—his coat having been abandoned back by the train—and felt ridiculously wanton standing there half-naked before her.
“Oh my!” her friend observed, apparently approvingly, and his blush deepened. He couldn’t imagine a time or place such open reactions as theirs to a complete stranger wouldn’t be those of prostitutes, but he didn’t have the leisure to ponder the idea.
The servant—Benjamin—returned. As he seemed to be a butler, Frederick supposed that was a last name rather than a first, but perhaps that was just another oddity of this house. The butler brought with him a large, blue-and-white china box with a dragon and phoenix pattern on it. It was a very odd creation, seemed to have a hinged lid, and must be very expensive.
Perhaps they’re simply wealthy enough that they’re allowed to get away with any eccentricity they please?
The beautiful woman—Emma—had perked up slightly. “Bring it over here, and open it.”
Benjamin did, and Emma looked up to her friend.
“Nat, I'll need you, too.”
For the first time, her friend seemed rather nervous. “I don’t know if I'll be much help. I was never much good at containment.”
“You'll need to be.”
He could see that the black oil was invading Emma’s eyes again, her whole stature growing haughty, almost cruel. When she took a deep, shaky breath, a little of it receded.
“Work with Benjamin. We don’t have a choice.”
He had turned around to watch, too in awe to remember his state of nakedness, and she pointed a finger at him without looking. “And don’t lean your back against that table!”
He followed her order, only partly because it had never occurred to him to lounge in front of ladies—even fallen ones—although, as he stood, the pain started to return. He was a little shaky, but so was the woman near him.
“Prepare yourselves,” she ordered, although he had no idea for what.
The box was opened, her eyes glowing green, as she braced her bound arm with the other and let out a word he had never heard before. It sounded like a curse. The handkerchief dropped into the box, and a long line of black oil followed it. Then, she started to scream.
He could see her immense struggle. The black drained from the green of her eyes, and she looked like she was about to collapse.
Reaching out by instinct, he caught her from falling forward and watched the last drop of the ugly oil expelled from her hand. When it reached the box, her scream followed it.
“Close it! Seal it!”
And then another, odd light show began.
This time, it came from the friend and the butler. Both of them had their hands up, various lights pouring from their palms toward the box. The woman’s were golden, the man’s a very light blue, nearly invisible. Despite the fact that neither were moving, their struggle was evident on their faces—as well as from the box itself, the lid jerking, the black oil within it roiling like a storm-tossed sea.
Glancing at Emma, he saw her eyes widening in horror, but she was still panting so hard after her own struggle she didn’t seem to be able to help. A small bit of the oil escaped, and she swooped down, catching it with the tip of her index finger, which instantly turned black.
Horrified, he gasped, his arms still around her, and she turned in his grasp, her eyes suddenly landing on him.
Her next move started with her gaze—steady, serious. The look wasn’t glowing this time, but it still reached into his soul. Searching him for several, long moments, she finally nodded to herself.
“Focus on the box. Imagine it containing its contents, never allowing them loose into the world again.”
He was too shocked to break from her look for even a moment, and her eyes started begging. Her friend was now screaming, as she struggled to contain the liquid.
“For all our sakes, please.”
He didn’t understand but couldn’t let her down. His grip on her tightened instinctively, as he looked toward the box, which had tossed back its lid. Then, he calmed himself, focusing, imagining it as an unbreakable prison, holding the material, keeping it for good.
He didn’t notice that some of the strands which had been reaching out stopped.
His stare intense, some noise was buzzing in his head, his blood thumping in his veins. The words became a chant in his mind: Pull it back in. Enclose it. Bond with it. Contain.
Glowing furiously, a light within him had been ignited.
More and more, the black sea calmed, almost disappearing.
Once it seemed to be entirely still, he looked over to Emma’s hand and knew what to do.
Holding her arm up toward the box, he repeated the chant in his head, and, this time, the oil shot from her finger and into the container.
As it left her, her whole body shook, a sort of feverous delight in her eyes. The lid stayed open, but absolutely nothing emerged. All that could be seen inside now was the white glow of bone china.
It was a moment more before the glow inside him dimmed. When it did, he realized he was shaking—and that he still had his arms around Emma.
Letting her go, he was too stunned to be ashamed, to even notice his own nakedness.
Kindly, deeply, she looked at him, but he had no idea what she was thinking.
He let her take his shoulders, turning him back to the table. “Now, it’s your turn,” she soothed.
Her gaze was so strong, her hand poised near the wound on his back.
“If you need to scream, no one will judge you.” And then he felt a sensation which encompassed so many emotions, he had to do just that.
The cry which ripped from his throat was hoarse, shuddering. As the oil left him, the p
ain was nearly as sharp as it had been when he had first been stabbed by it, but the relief of being released from its grip was nearly sexual. Even once he knew the last was gone, he stood there, trembling, eyes closed. He was half-afraid he was going to unman himself in front of three total strangers.
Emma’s voice broke in, instructing him calmly. “Contain.”
He enclosed that oil too in his mind, and he heard her friend gasp.
“Now the shirt. Anything which touched it must be destroyed.”
Nodding, he felt the clothing fly past the two of them toward the box—but, at the moment, the fact that that was physically impossible seemed the least of his worries.
She ordered him to contain again, and he did, working purely on some instinct he had never suspected before. Of course, he didn’t understand it now, either, but the delight of the power through his blood was so intense he didn’t question. It just felt too good to be so free.
He had no conscious awareness of what that feeling meant, was turned around kindly by his new friend, her hand unashamedly smoothing over his naked flesh. When he opened his eyes to look at her, she seemed pleased and amazed, smiling.
“Take a deep breath.”
He did, following any command.
Her head tilted toward the floor. “Now, look at your work.”
His eyes widening in astonishment, he did. There was a steady, green glow around the box, containing it utterly. Looking back at her, he felt her touch on his shoulder, and knew only one thing he wanted to do. Answers didn’t matter. Nothing else did. He just wanted to take this woman to bed for days—no, for lifetimes—not as some paid and degraded resource but as a partner to his soul.
There was a world in her eyes—of knowledge, wit, intelligence, care, not to mention absolutely boundless pleasure. He wanted to explore it all, to open himself to her in ways he had never imagined doing with anyone else. When she smiled, he shook, knowing she could give him all of that.
Her hand stroked over his hair, and his shudder deepened. The only question now was whether she might desire any of it, as well.
She seemed to like him, at least. He supposed that was good.
Feeling slightly wobbly, as though he had lost a great deal of blood, he let the beautiful Emma lead him toward a sofa.
A Wild Conversion Page 3
